


the thing about things

by spinnerofyarns



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Bighead having a surprisingly sad backstory, Grief, Jared's weird obscure triggers, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:12:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinnerofyarns/pseuds/spinnerofyarns
Summary: cause the thing about things, is they tend to start meaning things nobody actually said, and if you're not allowed to love people alive then you learn how to love people dead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary from "The Thing About Things" by Amanda Palmer.
> 
> Hey! If you're reading this and/or if you've ever enjoyed anything I've written, I hope you'll consider participating in the SV fan fundraiser for CAIR and the ACLU. You can donate anytime between now and March 15, and any little bit helps! Go here for more info: https://svagainsttyranny.tumblr.com/

            When Donald comes home from school and finds his mother dead, he ages ten years in ten minutes. Or at least that’s how his social worker and therapist will describe it years later. He scrambles to find her pulse – something she taught him how to do when he was 4, an ER nurse’s priorities finally paying off – but there’s nothing and she’s not moving or breathing and the human body only has one and a half gallons of blood, there’s no way she could be alive after losing so much.

            Donald gives up, slumps over, and rests his forehead on the edge of the tub. Then, almost mechanically, he stands up, goes downstairs, and dials 911.

            He does it on autopilot, not processing or remembering anything. When, years later, a therapist asks him about it, he will have no memory of anything between seeing his mother dead in the bath and the arrival of the EMTs.

            The first EMT to enter the room is one of Donald’s mom’s work friends, a stocky brunette named Liv who keeps her hair short and spiky and always brings Donald’s favorite cookies when she comes over for dinner. Seeing Donald’s mom in the tub and Donald hunched over scrubbing blood off the floor, she swallows hard to compose herself.

            She kneels on the floor in front of Donald and puts her hands over his to stop him. “Donald,” she says softly, “Donnie, sweetheart, you need to get out of the room right now and give the EMTs some space to get your mom out. Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

            “But I have to clean it up.”

            “I know sweetie, but you can do that later, okay? Let’s just go downstairs now, I’ll make you some tea and the rest of the team can get your mom out, okay?”

            Donald stands up shakily and Liv follows suit. The top of his head comes up to her chest.

            “You’re getting so tall,” Liv says, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently leading him out of the bathroom. “How tall are you now, four-two? Four-three?”

            “Four feet, five and a half inches,” Donald says hollowly. His height is marked on the doorframe of his bedroom in his mom’s neat tidy handwriting.

            Liv leads Donald into the living room and sits down beside him on the couch. “I’m going to make you some tea, okay? Will you be all right on your own for a minute?” She takes the soft dark green blanket draped over the back of the couch and wraps it around Donald’s shoulders as he nods. “Okay, I know you and your mom have every tea under the sun, so is there any particular kind you want?”

            “Peppermint,” Donald says softly. It’s his mother’s favorite. “Is this part of your job?”

            “My shift actually ended before we got here,” Liv admits. “I just went because I recognized the address and didn’t want you to have to deal with this alone.” She gets up and goes into the kitchen. Donald can hear the other EMTs moving around upstairs.

            They come downstairs just as Liv enters with two steaming mugs of tea. Donald moves to stand up but Liv stops him.

            “You don’t want to see this, Donnie,” she says. “You don’t want to remember her like this.”

            Donald sits back down on the couch, accepting the mug of tea Liv hands to him. The smell of peppermint, usually so soothing, turns his stomach now.

            It takes him a few moments to realize that Liv is still talking.

            “Donald, sweetheart, is there anyone you can stay with?”

            Before Donald can answer, one of the other EMTs pokes his head into the room. “The police just radioed,” he says. “They’ll be here soon. She’s bagged and in the ambulance, do you want to go back with us or…”

            “I’ll stay here; I can walk home from here. Plus, Donald should have someone with him while he talks to the police.”

            The EMT nods, then looks at Donald. “I’m sorry, kid,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

            Donald just nods, not sure how to respond. He’ll be hearing those words often in his life, though never from the people who actually need to be sorry.

            “We found this upstairs,” the EMT says, handing Donald a journal. “It might be handy,” he adds as he leaves. “For finding a guardian or whatever.”

            Donald recognizes it at once. It’s one of his mother’s journals, small and black and swollen with ticket stubs and photos and postcards. Donald flips through it. This is the most recent one, dating back to January. The first entry is on his birthday. Or at least the day his mom says is his birthday. He was actually born at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, as one year bled into another, but officially his birthday is January 1st.

            The last page has only 9 words. _Dear Donnie, I’m so sorry. Be brave. Love, Mom._

            Donald feels a lump form in his throat.

            “Donnie,” Liv says again, “do you have any relatives you can stay with? Grandparents or an aunt or an uncle or…”

            Donald shakes his head. “My grandparents are dead and I don’t know who my dad is,” he says softly. “I think Mom had a brother but she doesn’t talk to him anymore. If we have his phone number, it would be in the little notebook by the phone.”

            “Okay, the police or CPS will find him. Are you okay?” Liv asks. “Have you eaten anything?”

            Donald shakes his head, still holding the mug of tea. “Not hungry,” he says in a small voice, and takes a sip of tea.

            Live squeezes his shoulder comfortingly. “I’m so sorry, Donnie,” she says. “I miss her too. But you need to know that it wasn’t your fault, okay? She loved you. You were the light of your mom’s life.”

            _She loved me,_ Donald thinks, _but not enough to stay._ What does it say about him that not even his own mother loves him enough to stay?

            There’s a knock at the door and Liv stands up. “That’ll be the police. Come on, Donnie.”

            Donald stands up automatically and walks mechanically to the door to open it.

            He has no memory of talking to the police or the CPS agent, but the next thing he knows, the agent is hanging up the phone, saying “He won’t be able to come get you for a few days, do you have anywhere you can stay until then? If not, I’ll see about finding you a space in a group home…”

            “He can stay with me,” Liv says immediately. “Right, Donald?”

            Donald nods.

            The agent asks Donald to leave the room so she can ask Liv some questions. He goes upstairs and sits on his bed until the agent knocks on his door.

            “Okay, Donald,” she says, “you’ll be staying with Liv for the next couple nights. If anything happens, you have my card.”

            Donald fidgets with the business card in his hand, running his thumb over the embossed letters spelling out _Lydia Montanez, Pennsylvania Child Protective Services_.

            Liv comes into the room and sits down next to Donald. She rubs his back. “Why don’t you pack up your things, kiddo?”

            Donald nods, and Liv leaves to walk Ms. Montanez out.

He’s still holding his mom’s journal, which he sticks into the pocket of his school backpack. He fills another older backpack with clothes, mostly sweaters and jeans cause it’s already bitterly cold, and a few books. He pinches the inside of his wrist, hard. It hurts. So this isn’t just an awful dream, and he isn’t going to wake up, and his mom is really actually dead.

When he comes downstairs with his bags, Liv is saying goodbye to Ms. Montanez. Donald waves as she closes the door, then sinks down on the stairs.

Liv sits down next to him and pulls him into a hug, and he feels the hot painful tears building behind his eyes finally spill over.

Liv rubs his back. “It’s okay, sweetie, let it out,” she says, her voice choked with tears of her own.

When Donald has cried himself out, he looks up and sees a flash of blue. His mother’s scarf, soft robin’s-egg-blue wool, is hanging on the coat rack next to her winter coat.

Liv stands up. “We should get going,” she says, picking up her coat from where she dropped it on the living room floor on her way in. “I have to feed Skipper.”

Donald puts on his own coat and hat and gloves, then grabs his mother’s scarf and winds it around his neck.

It still smells like her, like her crisp apple shampoo and soft subtle floral perfume. Donald buries his face in it for the length of the walk to Liv’s house. If he closes his eyes he can almost convince himself that she’s still alive.

\----

“Oh, hey, it’s peppermint season again!” Bighead says, picking up a bright festive box of tea. “Should I get this?” he asks.

Jared stiffens, the smell of peppermint making his stomach clench. He nods, afraid to say anything lest Nelson get mad at him for being too needy and weird and horrible.

Bighead puts the tea in their cart, then reaches over to squeeze Jared’s hand. “You okay?” he asks. “You look like a tiny rabbit staring at a huge snake.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, fine, nothing’s wrong.” Jared says, with an odd forced cheeriness.

Bighead doesn’t let go of his hand. “Baby…”

“I’m fine,” Jared says. “Let’s keep going, we still need vegetables.”

Bighead keeps holding Jared’s hand as they walk through the supermarket. When they get home, he puts the peppermint tea away in the pantry and brews Jared a large mug of lavender-chamomile. Jared looks up from his laptop as Bighead places the mug on the coffee table.

“Thank you, Nelson,” he says softly.

“Jared,” Bighead says sitting down on the couch next to him, “you seemed really upset earlier, do you want to talk about it?”

Jared sighs, wringing his hands apologetically. “I…it’s just that…the anniversary of my mother’s death is coming up, and that was her favorite kind of tea, and I haven’t been able to stand the smell or the taste of it since the day she died. One of the EMTs made me a cup to soothe me and well…now I associate it with that. I’m sorry, I know how much you like it.”

Bighead takes Jared’s hand. “Babe, why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. “I wouldn’t have bought it if I’d known, I’m sorry, I can go return it or give it to Richard or something…”

Jared shakes his head. “Don’t be silly, if you like it you should drink it. I want you to be happy.”

Bighead pulls him into a hug. “And I want _you_ to be happy, sweetheart. Besides, I only bought it cause Richard loves it. When we were in college he’d go peppermint-crazy every winter. Our friends used to jokingly call our room ‘Santa’s Asshole’.”

Jared laughs a little. “I did notice he likes mint,” he admits.

“Likes is an understatement,” Bighead says, rubbing Jared’s back. “Not even getting completely, vomiting-in-rosebushes wasted on peppermint schnapps could turn him off the taste. He’s a fucking weirdo. Anyway, I can put the tea away and only drink it with him if it’ll make you feel better.”

Jared buries his face in Bighead’s shoulder and takes a deep shaky breath. “I need to start forming positive associations with it,” he says, his voice muffled against Bighead’s hoodie. “Drink it whenever you want.”

Bighead kisses the top of Jared’s head. “If you’re sure,” he says. Jared nods. “Okay. I love you.”

Jared smiles and snuggles closer. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Hm?”

“I love you too.”

\----

Bighead doesn’t consider himself the snooping type, but the photobooth strip poking out of the journal on Jared’s nightstand grabs his attention. It’s old and faded and shows a much younger – and smaller – Jared, gap-toothed and rosy-cheeked, making goofy faces next to a woman who can only be his mother. She has his prominent nose, his hooded sad eyes – though hers are hazel rather than blue – and his soft gentle smile. Bighead feels a tug of affection for her and for this tiny version of Jared, happy and healthy and safe with his mom.

“Nelson?” Jared’s voice in the doorway makes him jump, and he scrambles to put the journal back on the nightstand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t read it, I swear, I was just looking at the photo, I’m so sorry Jared I didn’t mean to – “

Jared cuts him off with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says, picking up the journal. “I’m not angry. I just wish you’d asked for permission first.”

Bighead shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and hangs his head like a kid sitting outside the principal’s office. “I’m sorry.”

Jared sits down on the bed next to him and flips through the journal. For a few minutes they just sit in silence.

“Is…in the photo, is that your mom?” Bighead finally asks. Jared nods, running his thumb over the edge of the photobooth strip.

            “It’s from the train station in Philadelphia,” he says softly. “We went there a few weeks after my 8th birthday, to the art museum, and stopped by the photobooth at the station on the way home to take these photos to remember that day.”

            Bighead squeezes Jared’s hand. “That sounds nice. Your mom sounds nice,” he says. “And she’s…she’s beautiful. You look so much like her.”

            Jared nods. “She was incredibly kind. She knew all her coworkers’ birthdays and she’d always surprise them with homemade cookies or brownies or whatever baked goods they liked. She cared very deeply about people.”

            “The way you do,” Bighead says, moving his hand to Jared’s upper back to rest on his painfully prominent vertebrae.

            Jared shakes his head. “Even more so.” He flips to the last page of the journal. “This…well, I supposed it’s her suicide note of sorts. And her last words to me.”

            Bighead reads the looping cursive handwriting. _Dear Donnie, I’m so sorry. Be brave. Love, Mom._ He looks up. “So your tattoo…”

            Jared nods, unconsciously rubbing his fingers over the text on the left side of his clavicle.

            Bighead leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “You _are_ brave, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re the bravest, most amazing person I know. And I know how much courage it took for you to show me that, and I’m honored. Thank you.”

            Jared squeezes Bighead’s hand. “I trust you, Nelson,” he says. “I love you.”

            “I love you too.”

\----

            One cold January morning Jared absentmindedly puts on his mother’s scarf.

            “I’ve never seen you wear that,” Bighead says in the car on the way to work. “It looks lovely with your eyes.”

            Jared looks down at the scarf and barely stifles a gasp as tears well up in his eyes. Nelson, in the driver’s seat, puts his hand on Jared’s shoulder.

            “Jared, baby, what’s wrong?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

            Jared nods. “It’s just…this was my mom’s scarf. I don’t usually wear it cause it’s…it’s one of the few reminders of her I have left. I took it with me when I left the house after…well, after she died. It used to smell like her.” He sniffles. “It doesn’t anymore. I’ve forgotten what she smelled like, and it scares me. I don’t want to forget her.”

            Bighead pulls off the road into the breakdown lane, puts the car in park, and turns to face Jared. He reaches across the center console and takes Jared’s hands.

            “You won’t forget her,” he says, rubbing his thumbs over Jared’s bony knuckles. “You won’t. I promise.” He takes a deep breath. “My little sister died the summer before I started college. She had cancer. Leukemia. I gave her my bone marrow for a transplant and it worked for a while but then my senior year of high school she got sick again and she didn’t get better.” He lets go of one of Jared’s hands to wipe his eyes. “She was 10. I watched her die, Jared, I was there when my parents made the decision to shut off her life support. And afterwards, when I went home, I went into her room and curled up on her bed with her favorite teddy bear and just cried for a solid 6 hours.” He sniffles, wipes his eyes again. “Richard was with me,” he adds. “He didn’t want to let me be alone, which I guess was a good move on his part. He was actually a huge help in keeping my head above water that year. I don’t think I could’ve done it without him.” He smiles shakily. “I still have that bear. It helps, having a physical reminder of them. Especially if it’s something soft you can cuddle.” He chuckles softly. “Sorry, that got really dumb and sad and off-topic really fast but what I meant was, I get it. I’ve been there. And yeah you might forget tiny details about her, but you’re never going to forget _her._ You’re never going to forget how much she cared about you.”

            Jared reaches across the center console to pull Bighead into a hug. “Nelson, I had no idea,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

            “Most people don’t know,” Bighead says. “And…I’d prefer to keep it that way, ok?”

            Jared makes a noise of agreement. “Of course,” he says. Then, “Are you okay to drive? Or do you want me to take over?”

            “I’ll be fine,” Bighead says, his face pressed into Jared’s shoulder. “I just need a minute.”

            “As long as you need, darling.” Jared says, rubbing his back.


End file.
